


Tempting the Fate of a Chaperone

by crowbarwolf



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Slow Build, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowbarwolf/pseuds/crowbarwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Problem: Getting worse. Solution: Stop drinking. How: Keep yourself busy; apply for six different jobs at once. The future is looking well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempting the Fate of a Chaperone

**Author's Note:**

> My first les mis story. This... got a little bit out of hand. Uh, yeah, I don't think I can reduce this less than 5k+ anymore? And I am very new to this site so. It's very confusing and yesterday I accidentally deleted my Aegon/Arya story, ugh. But anyway. Please be kind, this is unbeta'd, so there will be, probably, some major/minor mistakes ahead.  
>  **also:** I did some research on alcoholic withdrawal. An alcoholic cannot simply stop drinking so suddenly, right, because it will cause a great damage/shock to the kidney, so this is Grantaire cutting back and trying to keep himself busy as long as possible to avoid the bottle.  
>  See? Even I can do some plot~ ;)

-

Living with Jehan has its pros and cons. If Grantaire is forced to admit – though not in front of Jehan, possibly under torture plus three drops of veritaserum in his mouth – there are more cons than pros.

He can list them all on a piece of paper the size of their dining table when he's drunk (which he did, unfortunately, with several colourful permanent markers; he had to burn the table after he realised what he's done), can list them all without pausing for a breath when he meets Feuilly at the studio or Bahorel at whichever bar they find themselves in.

Every time, both Feuilly and Bahorel will tell him that the problem is not within Jehan, but the guy he is currently dating, which.

Yeah.

Not so far off the grid or anything like that, but Grantaire has lived with Montparnasse once, during his senior year, it really wasn't so bad. He kept mostly to himself, like he does now, told him funny stories or important news and he did his own laundry and made sure they didn't die starving at the end of the week.

Jehan wasn't so bad for a roommate either, as he is, quite literally, the embodiment of perfection when it comes to cleaning, doing laundry, or cooking. They usually have a poetry-trade-off on Sunday morning after breakfast. At night Grantaire would ask Jehan to stay still for him to paint, sometimes with Montparnasse's arms around his waist or Montparnasse naked around him.

When asked why his sudden interest in Greek Mythology has increased over the months, Grantaire would say _Apollo_ even though most of his subjects presently are that of the fair cherry-lipped Hades, accompanied by beautiful golden Persephone with flowers in her hair.

Courfeyrac hasn't stopped laughing, after that last time Grantaire showed him around the flat, stumbling into Grantaire's room to find a series of paintings based on The Abduction of Persephone.

Montparnasse, on the other hand, announces that he is very much flattered, when Grantaire finally shows him. Jehan proclaims his love for Grantaire that will last until death does them apart, which leads to Montparnasse kissing Jehan's lips, Jehan kissing back with ferocity Grantaire would rather not know the poet possesses, then Montparnasse making grabby-hands at him on the bed until Grantaire complies with a whimper.

Uh. Anyway.

Pros of living with Jehan: promised healthy life style, enough inspiration to get him painting, free time filled with entertainments, witty talk, no boredom.

The cons? He knows more of their sexual activities, kinks, and dirty talk in explicit details more than he wants to know. If one is to wonder why that is such a bad thing, well, for one, it drives Grantaire to drink _more_.

Not to erase the images of Montparnasse fucking Jehan so hard the bed creak, or Jehan handcuffing Montparnasse to said bed, riding him to oblivion; not just that.

It gives Grantaire _ideas_ and, not exactly a surprise there, but Jehan from behind has a similarity to a certain blond hunk Grantaire's been in love with for years. And. Mix them together, it only serves to make him drown in despair (alcohol), for the reminder of something that will never be.

One day, he's not surprised to find himself drinking a little bit more than necessary and ends up strapped to a hospital bed, Éponine's enraged face hovering above his own, Bahorel being detained by everyone in the room to stop him from trying to strangle Grantaire's neck.

"This needs to stop." Éponine says. It's not a question, not a request, it is a stone-cold command that promises death at best or mutilation of several body parts at worst.

By the door, Jehan looks close to breaking down right there and cry his heart out. Grantaire feels guilt settling into the pit of his stomach, because of course, it is either the lovely poet or Montparnasse that found him in the first place.

Grantaire croaks out a pitiful _'Yes, 'm so sorry, 'Ponine'_ , then lets himself be dragged into the darkness once again.

-

First step to recovery is not to stop drinking at a moment's notice, no. It is to cut back on his daily dose of alcohol until his hand no longer shakes.

Grantaire has seen the result of people that just suddenly stopped drinking, has seen it from personal experience that was his father, when his mother threatened to divorce him, so he knows better.

He _should_ know better.

Yet here he is, head buried between his knees, hands gripping tight at his curls, pulling it from its roots after tearing his canvas to pieces.

Paint splatters across every surface of his room, a colourful whirlwind of red and black and blue; his nightstand is covered in violet and vermillion, his bed a mess of red, red, _red_ ; the duffel bag that contains most of his clothes are covered in blue and and peppermint green, already seeping through the material and possibly, definitely staining his clothes inside.

It is Montparnasse who pries his hands apart, slow yet firm, the harsh dug of his right-hand nails grounding him back to reality, where Jehan is currently crying against the nape of his neck, his arms a tight vice around Grantaire's waist.

The corner of Montparnasse's lips twists in something akin to a grimace. He takes a look around the room, noting the lack of blood with a relief glint in his eyes, the relaxed strain of muscles in his body, then he looks at Grantaire with a sigh.

"Clearly, your plan is not working." States Montparnasse, his voice a flat non-judgmental thing, because if anyone understands this, it's Montparnasse. Jehan's arms start to loosen under the soft caress of Montparnasse's gloved fingers on his shoulder, giving Grantaire some space to swallow a lungful of paint-smelling air.

Grantaire looks at the man through sweat-dampened curls, at the way Montparnasse holds a shaking Jehan in his arms, and has to close his eyes at the fresh wave of aggression that makes his fingers curl, his eyes seeing nothing but red.

"'Aire," Montparnasse says, calling his name, louder than necessary. "We are doing this my way."

The wine flask is shoved and the content poured down his throat in less than a minute. Grantaire can feel the burn as the liquid is swallowed, can feel the warmth inside his chest, the fog that helps with his headache building behind his eyelids. It is nothing but a single moment of pleasure, Grantaire knows, yet he can't find it in himself to feel relief.

He feels like a failure.

(He _is_ a failure.)

-

There is a glass of wine sitting on the nightstand the next time Grantaire opens his eyes.

From what he can gather, the presence of the wine on the nightstand by itself means he's not in the hospital, which is a big improvement all around, kudos to him for that. Beneath him the material is sleek against his skin, dark red and expensive, the colour of wine that Grantaire can never afford, and there are scratching marks and navy-blue silk tie wrapped around the headboard. The pillow smells of Jehan's natural coconut shampoo and Montparnasse's astershave.

Dutifully, Grantaire sips the wine – white, not strong enough to get him drunk, enough to cover the impending headache, to stop the trembling of his body – careful not to swallow everything in one gulp. His tongue is dry from the lack of water, his throat a rough scratchy thing. It feels better now he has alcohol in his system, but not so much better that he will be able to get anything done.

Montparnasse walks in with a larger glass of water and a bowl of what smells like tomato bisque. The tired, resigned line on his face is a sign of grief that he never shows anyone, except maybe Jehan, and Grantaire suddenly feels a thousand times worse.

"I've taken care most of your clients, informing them of the slight delay of their paintings." Montparnasse informs him. "Bahorel cleaned your room yesterday, and Feuilly took some of your finished paintings with him to the studio. He told me he'll take care of the rest." There is a bright red bow tied around his hair, a stark beautiful contrast against the coal-black of Montparnasse's hair.

Fair Hades, Grantaire thinks, and his fingers itch to paint. He tells Montparnasse so which earns him a delicate arch of Montparnasse's brow. "I can't let you paint, after yesterday. You gave us quite a scare, 'Aire. Jehan said I can let you sketch, maybe, but only under supervision. And _after_ you've got some food in your stomach."

Grantaire's mouth curls into a self-deprecating smile. "Beg your pardon, o' Hades." He says, honestly, earnestly, although the slight mocking in his tone is practically impossible to remove. Montparnasse smiles, places the bowl and the glass on the nightstand, and piles two pillows atop Grantaire's legs. He points at the tomato bisque then the sheet.

"Just do me a favor and don't stain the sheet, okay? I'm going to take your sketchbook from your room and my laptop. You can sketch and I will work, right here next to you. Jehan's order."

"And you will do anything to please him," teases Grantaire. Montparnasse makes a face as he stretches, sensuously, in a way that makes Grantaire want to photograph the whole thing, possibly even create another Hades-related series porn out of it.

"I thought you already _knew_ , especially the last time I shouted 'Master' –"

"Oh god. Spare me."

Montparnasse laughs.

-

It goes on like that for a couple of weeks.

Well, not _exactly_ like that, but the mornings are _like that_. Grantaire will wake up snuggled between Jehan and Montparnasse, sip his wine, eat his breakfast, sketch for a few minutes before he is ushered into the bathroom for a shower. After that it's up to him to do whatever he wants, and Grantaire being Grantaire, more often than not, always challenge Montparnasse to run around the block with him and see who will win.

Sometimes, when he's feeling creative, Montparnasse will drive him to Feuilly's loft that he shares with Bahorel to finish some of his paintings. When he's out of ideas, frustrated and doesn't know what to do, Bahorel will trick him into boxing, and they will box for hours until Montparnasse gets tired of their antics and force them out for lunch.

There are times when Grantaire feels himself slipping, wanting for more alcohol to be consumed during the pauses between activity. He's scared that he probably will, the moment he is out of Montparnasse's sight. Scared he will snatch the nearest source of alcohol, and left feeling empty afterward.

But Montparnasse always manages to coax him into sketching, or ask Grantaire to teach him how to make a coq au vin, or play something nice to him on the old piano in the living room or the guitar next to Grantaire's bed or the violin he keeps locked in his wardrobe.

Five weeks later into his journey to sobriety, Montparnasse unfolds a newspaper on the coffee table whilst Grantaire sketches with Jehan peeking over his shoulder. He snaps his fingers loudly for their attention and, when he gets it, tells Grantaire very seriously that he needs to find a job.

"I've already got plenty," Grantaire protests, gesturing at the rows of unfinished paintings he has acquired back from Feuilly this morning, plus the written reminder of his bar-tending shift on their calendar.

Montparnasse shakes his head. "What you need is a _distraction_. Painting is your job, and while it is very useful indeed, it does not distract you the way it does some people, who does not paint for a living." Jehan mutters what suspiciously sounds _'like Enjolras'_ , which Grantaire ignores, and waves at Montparnasse to go on.

"Secondary jobs will be like a hobby of sorts to you, a way to distract you from the bottle. You've been sketching me for the last half an hour or so, but your eyes flicked over to the cabinet where you know I keep the bottles in more than five times already."

Grantaire thinks it over, the pros and cons. On the other hand, it does sound like a good idea and very much profitable. He can work as a DJ, maybe; Montparnasse has connections all over Paris, and Grantaire is passable enough to have a guy going down on his knees during one of his summer jobs, back in college.

Jehan digs his fingers into the bunched muscles around his neck, massaging firmly, it makes Grantaire going _limp_ under his hand, purring like a cat. "It will be a good opportunity to showcase your talent, as Éponine has so eloquently put it," murmurs Jehan into his ear, reminding him of the time Éponine barged into their apartment screaming that she has secured a job as an Opera actress-slash-singer.

"I can introduce you to a couple of places," continues Montparnasse, already rolling the newspaper closed. "That way you can buy some nicer-quality paints, more books, brushes of your choosing; a suit too, should you want it. I'm pretty sure we can get it tailored, dressed you clean and pretty for a job interview at an escort agency."

Grantaire snorts, amused, because _what_. If it's Jehan or Montparnasse working as an escort, he can understand the appeal, the acceptance, but _Grantaire_? It must be one hell of a desperate company to accept even _Grantaire_ inside. Not that he's planning to be an escort anytime soon, though, not really.

Although that would be one hell of an experience, now that he thinks about it.

"I can do catering, DJ, and some classical music at a local café, maybe, should they want me." Grantaire relents. "I can dance and teach it well, as well as I am at boxing and parkour, and both of you know how good I am at both."

"We do, actually," sighs Jehan, dreamily. Emphasize on dreamily. "Not a fan of blood-sports myself, but I must admit that you look rather catching when you box."

His fingers start wondering below Grantaire's waist, and Montparnasse starts scooting closer between Grantaire's legs. Grantaire makes an embarrassing kittenish sound and flees before they can start pulling him into the amazing world of threesome. Again.

He manages to finish two commissions while Jehan and Montparnasse are fucking like rabbits on their couch (he promises himself to never, ever sleep or sit on the couch; his ass will have to suffer the cold hard floor over duffel-stained-spunk), and is sending the progress via emails to his clients when he notices the twenty-four unread messages in his inbox.

Feuilly answers his call on the second ring. "Do you know why I have twenty-four unread messages, mostly from Courfeyrac, but there are also some from – holy fuck – Enjolras, in my inbox?" rambles Grantaire in lieu of a proper greeting.

"Uh. Probably because they haven't heard any words from you for five weeks," answers Feuilly, tentatively, making the mistake of turning the last part into a question that makes Grantaire start panicking. Bad.

"What? I thought – I thought you were going to take care of that!" he screeches, tries to keep his voice down a bit when the moans from the living room start getting louder, because. Feuilly is smart, Feuilly is supposed to handle these things, he and Grantaire are _friends_ longer than anyone's been friends with each other.

"I'm handling your art projects and clients, Grantaire, not your lo – _social_ life." Feuilly sounds amused, the bastard. Grantaire is glad that at least someone is taking enjoyment from his pain. "Just for the record thou; 'Ponine makes us swore that no one aside from us is aware of your development, for safety purposes rather than anything.

"She said she found something in the web that too much people all at once will be overwhelming for patients, so the only ones who know about this is her, obviously, with her being your emergency contact and whatnot; Bahorel, who is apparently your second emergency contact, me, Jehan, and Parnasse."

Grantaire lets that piece of information sink in, paling, and takes a deep breath as the panic decreases, turning into a slow buzz under his skin. "Basically you're saying that they don't know where I am, or how I am, or whether I die or not."

"Oh no, they know." Replies Feuilly easily. "Remember all those times when you came over, boxing with Bahorel or painting with me? 'Parnasse and I switched turns taking pictures, and Jehan kinda showed them all to everyone in Musain."

"Including the half naked ones?" Grantaire's voice has reached a new level of high-pitch, he has now descended to the lowest pit of hell and is actually suffering from the fire that is shame.

He is glad Feuilly still sounds cheerful, even as he says, "Especially the half naked ones, and the wet-t-shirt ones, and the paint-splattered one. I think Jehan accidentally showed one with the three of you pre-sex? I'll have to ask Bahorel about that," like he isn't runing Grantaire's life.

"My life," Grantaire does not whine, he does _not_.

Feuilly makes a sympathetic noise, because Feuilly is nice like that, even though to Grantaire's mind and ears it sounds like the artist is laughing at him from the inside.

-

On a Monday (week #6th of the path to recovery – cutting down hasn't been all that nice, but it's been doing him some good; stop drinking entirely, true soberity, is all that's left), Grantaire finds himself sitting nicely for the equally nice barber to cut his hair.

"How did you brainwash me into agreeing with you to do this again?" Grantaire asks for the seventh times that day. He knows, he's counted. He tells Montparnasse this when the younger man makes a face, getting ready for some witty retort. Grantaire just destroys his chance to unleash said witty retort. Grantaire is very proud.

"Éponine is on her way with the suit," announces Jehan cheerfully. "She said the tailor's son wanted your phone number."

Yesterday, Parnasse had forced him into a tailor shop to get measured up and, by some miracles, had made (threatened) the tailor to finish the suit overnight. Grantaire has never seen someone dropped everything so quick.

"Did she give it to him?" Grantaire quite likes the tailor's son. Not only he is pretty, with the wild brown hair and the golden eyes and the sweet easy smile, Grantaire can and will admit that he is pretty smitten already at first sight. Especially more, now that he has a chance.

Jehan looks at him weirdly, eyes narrowed like a cat, lips pursed in thought, like Grantaire has grown another pair of head. Or about to have his hair chopped off, whatever.

"No, she gave him _Enjolras'_ number," he says, and Grantaire laughs.

"Oh my god, seriously? Do you remember the last time?" last time someone called Enjolras to flirt with him or ask him out, Enjolras had spoken using some very creative choices of words that left the other guy crying his heart out, so loud even Bahorel, tended by Feuilly on the other side of the room, could hear it.

Montparnasse has crossed over the room to talk with the barber, who is looking completely terrified like a baby Bambi about to watch his mother murdered, while Montparnasse is the very picture of elegance as he talks in a low calm voice.

Composed, Montparnasse is a force not to be trifled with. Elegant, sleek-looking Montparnasse, a predatory glint in his eyes; soft-spoken Montparnasse can fuck you up and torture you without getting a drip of blood on his boots and display you in public simply for the pleasure of seeing you sobbing in shame before killing you and spread your ashes in the Seine.

He's a lover of beauty, you see. He will not corrupt the Seine's beauty by throwing an ugly mutilated body that even starving dogs won't eat. Éponine said so.

A few minutes later, the barber come to where Grantaire sits, scissors in his hands. The tip glints under the light above Grantaire's head, and the barber's hands are shaking slightly as he puts them down.

"You know what I want." Montparnasse says sweetly, practically purring the words out, his hand on the barber's shoulder. "Don't fuck up," he adds, at the sight of the barber's trembling hands, to which the barber nods quickly, swallows a pill down his throat, then sets to work.

-

Grantaire looks through the job descriptions as Montparnasse drives them around the city. There are a lot of them, surprisingly. Piled up on the other side of the back seat, six different files for six very different jobs that demand a lot of things from an employee.

He's always known Montparnasse to be one of the most resourceful person he knows – including Éponine who is known by everyone as the headstrong fierce woman with the beautiful voice, Feuilly with his perchance for smoke at any random intervals, Bahorel, well, should he even start? – but he never thinks that he will manage to secure six different job interviews for him without breaking a sweat within an hour.

Though, maybe it's not Montparnasse's fault that they are driving around Paris like this, as it was Grantaire who wished to visit them all; Grantaire who begged for their time, sending Jehan running around the flat once they've gotten back from the barbershop looking for empty papers to be scribbled down numbers upon.

Montparnasse had looked skeptical after looking at the schedules Jehan set up, barging into Grantaire's shower which, _rude_ , just to ask if he's sure about this. Grantaire had rolled his eyes and snatched the nearest towel to regain what dignity he had left and nodded.

"Besides, it's not like _all_ of them are going to accept me, I mean. The chances of getting a job at this time of the year is below one percent, if you hadn't noticed. And I can't believe you actually got me an interview with _an escort company_. Jesus, 'Parnasse, I can't even, with you."

"Well I'm not the one who got you to agree for an interview with them this evening," Montparnasse points out. "Seriously though, you're brilliant. I'm not even going to act surprised when it turns out you get the jobs. Like, all six of them at once. I'm just worried it's going to get in the way with your real job."

And at that, Grantaire has to scoff and laugh. "That's impossible and you know it," says Grantaire, dismissing the idea entirely, since not only it is ridiculous, the chance of him to get accepted in more than one, at least, is very much laughable.

"Do you know the one thing that all these jobs have in common? Every single one of them wants their employee to be attractive. Not very specific, yet it is written right there, on papers. Getting a job is miracle enough; two is pushing it. Borderline on the impossible."

The skeptical look on Montparnasse's face doesn't quite disappear, but he relents with a swift quirk of his lips. "As you say."

-

 _Chasseresse_ is one of the most popular clubs at the heart of the city.

The walls are filled with neat beautiful graffiti, a large bar that serves literally everything from light liquor to heavy drugs. Expensive-looking band equipments placed systematically on a large rectangular-shaped stage on the first floor where, above it, there is a box half the size of the stage for the DJ, already complete with decks, mixers, basically everything, all there.

It is a frankly enormous establishment; four-stores high and four-houses wide, it is spacious and clean and, more often than not, smells of monkshood as a running practical joke that the owner is actually a werewolf-huntress.

Looking at her now – dressed impeccably in a long brown duffel-coat, black-leather gloved hands resting on her hips, her jeans as dark as the colour of her combat boots that Grantaire swears on his life hide more than five knives in them, somewhere – Grantaire is not sure that the rumours are all wrong.

He doesn't believe in the existence of werewolves, he doesn't believe in _anything_ really, but this woman has managed to successfully turn his perspective in life upside down without even trying.

She is not even as beautiful as Enjolras with her round face and hair as black as the charcoal Grantaire uses to sketch, her eyes dark and sharp and demanding. She has not spoken a single word but Grantaire is ready to believe anything she says. And also run away at moment's notice, that depends.

"Montparnasse," the woman greets in low unreadable voice. "This is your boy?" she asks, gesturing at Grantaire with her chin, her eyes roaming over Grantaire's form appreciatively, from the lapel of his suit, the exposed skin of his chest from where he has left the buttons open, down to the way the black trousers cling to his thighs like a second skin.

This is the last time Montparnasse buying his suits.

Montparnasse laughs, at her question more than anything else, his voice a rich deep timbre that makes Grantaire, even 'Ponine jealous of hearing. He is beautiful when he laughs, he always is.

"Yes, this is my boy for the interview." Montparnasse replies smoothly, his hand on Grantaire's arm. "But no, this is not my boy, _my boy_. This one is." He grabs Jehan by the waist and pulls him close and kisses the bared skin of the poet's neck. Jehan flushes deeply and Grantaire allows himself to smile at his friends' antics.

"Anyway. How have you been, Crow? Business still good?"

"If my business isn't going as well as you know it is, you will never have brought your boy here to work for me." Crow points out. She waves her hand dismissively at Montparnasse's small-talk, looking Grantaire boldly straight in the eye. "Can he spin the disk as well as you told me he can?"

"He can, surprisingly," Grantaire finds himself saying, _blurting_ it out, actually, then wills himself not to flush like Jehan currently is. "He has played at many clubs in many cities all over Europe. The only reason you have not heard of his name is because he is not ambitious enough to play for the President's children."

Crow arches her brows elegantly, her dark eyes widening as her lips tug into a small, sly smirk. "A man never backs down on his words." She warns, her voice going dark and dangerous, her body curving elegantly as she half-turns toward the direction of the back door.

"Talk less, do more." Grantaire agrees and matches her sharp-like grin with his own. Next to him Montparnasse makes a sound like he's impressed, while Jehan is positively swooning in his arms. Crow's hair is like wildfire around her face and Grantaire wants to paint her bloody.

"Follow me, then, and impress me with your skills," she says. Grantaire goes to follow and does just that.

-

"I expect you to be here every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday." Crow had announced, after Grantaire has finished with his mix. Grantaire was so surprised he quickly agreed, discussed the payment in a daze, and had let his fingers linger there longer than necessary.

Jehan had screeched at him for being amazing and Montparnasse complimented him in a somehow detached but earnest manner. "Seriously though," he was saying. "How the hell are you so good? I know that you're good with music, Jehan showed me some videos of you drunkenly singing to 30 Seconds to Mars with an electric guitar, also that one time with a violin, but I never thought you're actually _that_ good."

"There was this guy in college," was all Grantaire offered in response. Montparnasse made a humming sort of sound that said he understood. Jehan looked far too happy, it's suspicious.

Now, they are currently on their way toward Grantaire's second interview, a nice retro café nearby their apartment, thankfully. A classy place with the vintage homely-sort of atmosphere that mostly frequented by college students and hipsters; the complete opposite of _Chasseresse_ 's work environment.

"Are you really sure about this, R?" asks Jehan nervously. "When Parnasse said secondary jobs, he did not mean – well, this? A second job, that's all. Crow likes you, you got the job, so this is not really necessary isn't it?"

"What makes you so sure that this one isn't going to hire you too, anyway?" adds Montparnasse. "I mean, you've passed Crow's test. You've met the fucking lion of Paris, you can literally get any jobs you want now." He frowns, then declares; "I'm not going to be responsible if you tire yourselves out and ends up in the hospital."

"I agree," Jehan says. "That last time Éponine nearly cut our balls off. One of the nurses actually fainted at the sight of her wrath. Or her boobs. She has fantastic boobs." Montparnasse agrees, whether at the former or the latter, Grantaire isn't sure. He rolls his eyes anyway, just for the effect, and skims over the job description for the second interview.

"That one was pure luck," Grantaire tells them. "I'm just lucky enough to have handled women like that more than once in the past, and it just so happens that she likes my music too."

"Pure luck," Montparnasse echoes, incredulous. "You literally swooped her off her feet with your performance back there, R. And I've heard you playing all sorts of musical instruments, back at the flat. If you don't get hired here, Courfeyrac can have my arms and Bahorel my legs."

"I like your arms and legs," Jehan mumbles. Grantaire snorts.

"Yeah well, be prepared, Prouvaire. Soon your boyfriend is going to be an invalid. A man never backs down on his words, remember? Just drive and let's get this over with."

Once they reach the café, Grantaire regrets his words almost immediately.

"What the fuck is _Enjolras_ doing here?!" he whisper-shrieks in panic, ducking his head down and pulling Jehan and Montparnasse down with him.

This time, it's Jehan's turn to roll his eyes. "That's what I've been trying to tell you the entire ride here. Haven't you been listening?"

" _Trying to_ is the keyword here, Jehan." Grantaire dismisses quickly. He looks calm, for a fraction of seconds, feigning a mask of indifference that would've worked on anyone else, if Jehan hadn't known him so well. Then he spots curly hair and green eyes and he returns into a state of panic just as quickly.

"Oh my god Jehan _what am I going to do_!" he starts tugging at his shorten curls, eyes wild and fingers twitching, shoving his hand into his suit, searching for the non-existent flask of wine he used to carry when Enjolras was in the vicinity.

Another reason why, Jehan assumes, Éponine had vetoed and made them swore that they should not tell anyone aside from those who already knew of Grantaire's recovery.

It is not just simply the overwhelming factor she was talking about when she herded them into another room whilst Grantaire slept on – all of the know how much Combeferre can be much of help or Courfeyrac considerate enough to leave Grantaire alone – but it was the Enjolras factor that she meant the most.

Montparnasse, upon sensing his partner's silent distress, wraps his fingers around Jehan's wrist and Grantaire's neck with the other. Squeezing firmly on both side, light enough to not make a bruise, but hard enough to make his presence known.

Grantaire's breath hitches. His pupils dilate. Jehan doesn't know what his face is doing, but he hopes it conveys his emotion. "Are you – _seriously_?"

"Hey!" Grantaire protests, weakly. "It's not my fault that my asphyxiation kink is showing under your boyfriend's Midas touch!"

"You are not allowed to say 'kink' and 'boyfriend's' and 'Midas touch' in the same sentence _ever_ again." Montparnasse interjects. Grantaire narrows his eyes at him, asking, "What? Why?"

"Because I'm sporting a boner right now," he deadpans. "It is very inappropriate."

"Oh. My. _God_. Just." Jehan makes a frustrated noise, pointedly not looking down at what lies between Montparnasse's legs. "Just get in there, state your case, show him you can do it. Then we're out of here in a heartbeat."

When Grantaire nods but doesn't move, uncertainty in his blue eyes, the flight-rather-than-fight posture clear in the tight lines of his shoulders, Jehan shoots forward and envelopes his friend into a hug. "You can do this." Whispers Jehan into the nape of Grantaire's neck, kisses the skin there, and doesn't let go until Grantaire's shoulders sag, obviously resigned to his fate.

"Still. Um. Do you think I should lose the jacket?"

"No." Montparnasse and Jehan say at the same time.

Grantaire sighs.

-

Somehow, they manage to get past Enjolras' attention and into the kitchen where the owner awaits by some very large miracles.

Like, _literally_ , miracles.

Jehan in his bright peppermint flowers-patterned blouse, skin-tight white-green stripes jeggings, roses in his braided hair; Montparnasse in his rocking leather jacket, V-neck white shirt that just _demands_ attention, his tight, tight black jeans; Grantaire, in the middle of daylight, clad _in a fucking suit_ like he's the French version of James Bond.

Honestly. Grantaire is very much can still be surprised by how fucking dense Enjolras truly is.

"And people wonder why he's still a virgin," Montparnasse murmurs behind his back.

"Omg, I know right." Jehan murmurs back. Grantaire bites the insides of his cheeks to stop him from laughing out loud.

The owner of the café is, surprisingly, a very attractive young man in the middle of his thirties. His hair is so blonde it is almost white, his eyes the colour of honey and as warm as the midsummer's air, his lips plump and very red.

He's taller than Montparnasse and, by extension, taller than Grantaire. The body of an athlete, though not so much it can be considered intimidating; the man is a walking wet dream. Grantaire wonders if his workers get anything done with their boss looking like this.

"Montparnasse," greets the man pleasantly, giving the warmth Crow lack with a genuine smile. "It has been a while. This must be Jehan." He offers his hand for Jehan to shake then looks at Grantaire. It must be hallucination of sorts, but Grantaire thinks his smile widen slightly. "And you must be our new Grantaire. Welcome."

"Uh, really? I'm hired, just like that?" Montparnasse must have a hand in this, he must have.

Only, even Montparnasse looks surprised at the quick acceptance of employment. The man smiles sheepishly and laughs. "Oh no, no. We will need you to play a song for us first to decide. It is simply that, and this will sound creepy, I had one of my employees ran a background check on you the other day and we saw one of your videos.

"You are very talented, Monsieur Grantaire, and you have such a lovely, lovely voice. It will be a shame if we do not hire you, will it not?" the man smiles, flashing his dimples, and. Grantaire is charmed.

"Wow," says Grantaire. And. That's it. Uh. "Wow."

The man looks sad. "Is it really too creepy for your taste? I sincerely apologise for that, but it is a mandatory thing to be done, of sorts. After last year's complete disaster with one of our employees, we cannot take another risk, and –"

"No, no, no," Grantaire hurriedly says. "It's not – it's not that. I'm just. This is the first time someone's ever stalked me. I'm still trying to process that bit of information at the moment but, uh, I can play just fine like, right now? The guitar usually helps me think, so."

"Ah, well, of course, of course. Shall we?"

While they are walking toward the small stage by the cashier, Grantaire learns that the man's name is Raven. He is not of Paris, but he has some connections with the underworld, which is obvious seeing that he is acquainted well with Montparnasse, and his face turns sour every time Crow is mentioned.

"Crow and I do not have the best relationship, if we can even call it that. She spites me word by word and never agrees with me in _anything_ , even if it is the colour of the clouds on a sunny day or the precise number of zeros on someone's check. I do not hate her, but it is hard to like someone who is so different from you by much."

There is more story there from the tone of his voice, that of anguish and fondness and a lot more, and Grantaire wants to ask more, he really does; he wants to disagree and say that's not true, because look at me, I am in love with someone who barely tolerates me on a daily basis.

He does not say all that though, since they've reached the stage, and Montparnasse is helping Jehan plugging the cables in with deft clever fingers. When they reach for the cable connecting the electric guitar, Grantaire stops them.

"That won't be necessary," Grantaire says. "I'd rather play with the classic one, if that's okay. Much less of a hassle." He doesn't wait for a response before settling comfortably on the stool prepared in front of the microphone there.

"Oh, do the _'Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop'_ one! I've always loved that one, your voice gets all low and really sweet, it can rot even Marius and Cosette's teeth," Jehan exclaims cheerfully.

"You know that I'm always on page with you," Montparnasse tells Jehan. "But honestly, go with Alex Clare's _'Too Close'_ for once. It's hot." He says, to Grantaire. Grantaire makes a face then throws a coin at them.

"Pick a side and flip it. I'll sing for the losing side." Jehan flips the coin and loses. "Well then." He tests the strings one more time as the lyrics start filling his head.

When he looks up, Enjolras is staring at him from the opposite corner of the room, his eyes burning, challenging. Grantaire meets his stare unflinching, brushes a string, presses down on the cords. He does not look away as he begins to sing.

Neither does Enjolras.

-

Once Grantaire finishes singing, he carefully puts the guitar down, hugs both Jehan and Montparnasse goodbye, then flees the fuck away from the crime scene as fast as he possibly can before Enjolras can make a move to close his book and toward Grantaire, probably to ask about what happened there with the staring, of which Grantaire has no answer to.

Éponine finds him thirty minutes later, hiding inside her closet, clutching to her bedsheets like a life-line. "He hates me," Grantaire whines to her, loudly. "He barely tolerates me, and now he's going to hate me so much after what happened, at the coffee shop – Éponine, I need a drink."

Calmly, Éponine removes at the bedsheets and offers the cup of coffee in her hand to his lips. Grantaire takes a large mouthful of the pure, bitter taste of coffee and takes comfort of the fact that his mind is still clear, that his body has not started shaking yet after hours gone by without alcohol. He lets Éponine tugs the bedsheets off his person, guides him down outside her flat where Montparnasse awaits, a worried frown marring his face.

"R? You still okay for your next interview?" Montparnasse pries gently, cold fingers pressed down against Grantaire's pulse. "We can postpone this one, if you want. It's just a simple job at the museum as a tour guide, nothing grand."

Grantaire takes a deep breath and leans against Montparnasse's shoulder. "What's the next one after that?"

"You're going to be fighting for the position of a chef at an American diner downtown and a gym instructor from where you and Bahorel usually work at." Jehan answers easily, hugging Éponine tightly in his arms and kisses her worries away. Grantaire feels bad already, but she smiles at him nevertheless, a warning glare directed at the back of Montparnasse's head a second before the door is closed.

"No, just. I want to finish these interviews today." Grantaire tells them determinedly. "This is the last time I fucked up, I promise."

"You didn't fuck up, Grantaire." Says Jehan. "You panicked. It was normal. We're worried about you." And that right there almost sends Grantaire into a sobbing wreck.

 _You've been worried about me enough,_ Grantaire doesn't say. _You've been worried about for six fucking weeks, and I don't know how to repay you for that or without any of you around. I'm hopeless and I love all of you so much it scares me. Especially Enjolras, more so when it comes to Enjolras._

Instead, he settles for a smile, saying "Shall we?" in his most cheerful voice.

If only.

-

"Musée du Louvre." Grantaire states, flatly. "You secured me an interview at the _Musée du Louvre_ , Jesus Christ on a fucking _paddle_ , Montparnasse, _what have you done_?!"

"You're an atheist." Montparnasse frowns, lips curving downward around his cigarette, head tilted in apparent confusion. "I thought you'd be pleased? Feuilly keeps saying about him wanting to have a job at this place, once he's finished his art degree. So I assumed."

"You assumed." Echoes Grantaire, dumbstruck. It's another busy Monday, but a lot of people are waiting impatiently in front of the entrance.

The metro only takes roughly fifteen-twenty minutes from Éponine's flat to the museum. Since it is practically an underground mall anyway, Montparnasse pays for their lunch – two spicy Kebab Turkeys in hot sauce and diet cokes – before dropping the bomb that Grantaire is going to have an interview at the fucking Louvre. Jesus Christ.

Not so long ago, Grantaire had an actual interview with the American diner Jehan was talking about, one Mr. Todd who is, not so surprisingly, unfairly attractive with the chiseled jaw and the smouldering green eyes and _those fucking thighs, Grantaire can ride those thighs all day_.

Despite the bad-boy (as in Sons of Anarchy-type of bad boy rather than Montparnasse's-type of bad boy) appearance, Todd is actually just one big ol' softy who has so many feelings regarding absolutely everything.

It's charming, and endearing, and reminds him too much of a certain someone he will not name at this point. He is also involved in a very committed ménage à trois with another man and woman, which is. Not surprising as well.

He had taken a taste out of Grantaire's hot spicy wings and hot cocoa, and had looked truly surprise, in a good way Grantaire hopes, of what he's tasted there. 

"These are amazing. Like, godsend-level of amazing." Todd told him, eyes sparkling in glee. "Leave your phone number on the notepad there, kid. I'll call you. I'll _definitely_ call you." And that had been it.

"I can't do this," Grantaire decides, the moment he's done trying to bottle up his panic like a normal constipated person would. "We've already got me a job, with Crow, back at the club. This is the one job I don't think I'll ever get hired with, there's no need to confirm it, we'll just go to the next one –"

"'Aire," Montparnasse cuts in, scowling. "You're good, okay. I'm pretty sure Todd and Raven are going to hire you, and this is not exactly mandatory since having four jobs isn't exactly as easy as your cutting back on alcohol, but. You can always refuse either of them, even Crow, if you don't want to, if you want to stay here. We don't want you to be under pressure, we want you _distracted_ , enough to keep your hands off the bottle for a week."

"They will want you, R," Jehan adds softly. "You're amazing about these things, you know every single detail and history of each piece, and you're passionate about it. You're wonderful and they will be stupid not to want you. But if you want to back out, do it because you know you can't do it, not because you _think_ you can't do it."

Grantaire takes a deep breath. "Yeah, right," he exhales, less panicky. Montparnasse smirks at him and stubs his cigarette on nearby wall. "Come on then, Drama Queen, before you get another one of your panic attacks."

-

Their next stop after one disastrous interview at the Louvre is a political campaign.

Grantaire starts to flee, but Montparnasse catches his elbow, and the man no matter how far younger from Grantaire, can be quite strong when the situation calls for it. It's why he is one of the leaders of the mafia underworld, after all. Grantaire is slightly terrified that he does not find the man as terrifying as he should be.

"A political campaign? Are you fucking serious?" Grantaire whisper-shouts into Montparnasse's ear, tugging his elbow free with a little bit more force than necessary. Montparnasse's entire being emits the aura that clearly says he is unimpressed with Grantaire's whole being.

"Just give it a try, won't you? The most they will do to you is kick you out. And you're not here to intern, or anything, we both know how much you hate that." Montparnasse says.

" _Then why the fuck are we here in the first place?_ "

"You're here to improve their speeches," says Jehan, flux-innocent, even though he totally knows of this all along, the sneaky little shit. Montparnasse is a bad influence on him, Grantaire is not going to let this conspiracy proceed. "Someone to tear down their argument to pieces. Like 'Parnasse said, if they don't like you, the most they will do is kicking you out without any loss on either part. Well, except for the car, which suffers –"

" _Fine_ , I get it." He tries not to imagine the bottle of wine with his name on it hidden beneath his bed back at the flat, least his hand starts to tremble again. "Do you even know what they're going to talk about? I'm not about to offer myself on a silver platter looking stupid and out of my depth, you know."

"Knew you'd see things my way," Montparnasse quips, cheerfully so, and explains.

-

For the most part, Grantaire thinks that his latest job interview is the most interesting part of the day.

"No, you don't see –"

"I see exactly what you meant and understand exactly what you're trying to say, but _here_ is where you're _wrong_ , okay –"

And the best part? No one tries to stop him as he goes on a rampage about LGBT, domestic violence, women's rights, then somehow ventures on a five minutes rant about Guy Fawkes that somehow leads to London's monarchy, the uprising of slaves in Rome, while his debate partner sits there looking like he's going to throw up or start crying in front of Grantaire.

-

"I'd like to say that it was _my_ idea to bring you to that political campaign and as such, took credits for the upcoming happiness you will experience," Montparnasse tells Grantaire, satisfied and content like a lion after a particularly large dinner, stretching on the driver seat like some sort of an exotic panther.

"I feel really good about myself." Grantaire says, chewing happily around the chicken nuggets the campaign gave to him as a 'thank you' for mentally traumatizing their candidate in less than half an hour.

-

Wayne's Agency, at first sight, looks like your average normal talent agency that no one would ever suspect as being anything but. At Grantaire's entrance, a beautiful brunette dressed neatly in a very expensive-looking crimson suit that compliments every curve of her body asks him to pretty please fill in a questionnaire paper that somehow feels very personal.

He is then ushered into a room where seven people await; bullet-proof window glass in lieu of a wall, a long metal-based table in front of seven metal-based chairs, nothing but a comfortable-looking red couch in the middle where Grantaire supposes is where _he_ should sit.

So he does. Leaning back against the soft fluffy cushion with ease he does not feel and tries not to fidget under the intense scrutiny of his interviewers. One of them takes a look at the filled questionnaire the brunette on the front desk has apparently copied in a matter of seconds, then says, in a detached formal tone,

"It says here that you have no problems with either men or women, and that you prefer blond more than blonde."

Grantaire swallows. "Yes."

"And that you also speak... eleven languages?" Grantaire confirms with another yes. The man nods thoughtfully. "And how many languages you are most fluent and most capable to interact people with, aside from the obvious?"

"Eleven." Grantaire says. "I have enlisted them all on the paper in your hands, uh. Yes?"

"Indeed you have." Another man says, this one younger, more beautiful. "I gather this means that you don't mind going global?"

 _What_ , Grantaire does not have a good feeling about this. "Sure, if it pays right." He says instead. All seven interviewers nod in sync. Grantaire is a little bit creeped at this.

"Very good, Monsieur. We will give you a call. You may leave."

Grantaire flees.

-

After, precisely at seven o'clock, Montparnasse drives them to the Musain and, once again, pays for their food.

They take a seat at the far corner of the bar to avoid being seen by the others (Enjolras), only that hope is crushed when Bahorel comes in then lunges for Grantaire with a boisterous laugh.

"R!" the man shouts. "You made it! I'm so glad for you! How is the recovery going? Well, I take it? Please don't tell me that drink is spiked, by the way, because I might just punch you across the room. How is the job hunting going?"

Basically, Bahorel has dropped the bomb of six-weeks going AWOL in a matter of seconds using a series of very efficient choices of words. Grantaire can see the exact moment when Enjolras, who was trailing closely behind Bahorel with Combeferre and Courfeyrac at his side, immediately focuses on him, hunched back in the corner, a frown marring his inhumanly beautiful face.

Surprisingly, it is Courfeyrac who breaks the silence first. "Recovery?! What recovery? 'Taire, are you sick? Is that why we can't contact you in the past six weeks or so? Are all the pictures Jehan has been showing us for the past six weeks lies? Were you dying all alone in the hospital. R, oh my god, R, is this something we need to talk about?"

"No, Courfeyrac, I don't think this is something Grantaire would like to talk about." Combeferre says calmly. He puts a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder and directs him toward the back room along with everyone else, including Marius and Cosette, in tow. He looks at Enjolras, who hasn't taken his eyes off Grantaire's person, tells him "We're going to wait for you in the other room," to which Enjolras simply nod at.

Jehan looks nervous, clutching Montparnasse's hand under the table, and Grantaire envies him, he really, really does.

"Job hunting," Enjolras finally says, after five minutes of awkward silence. "That explains the singing at the café today. Did they hire you?"

"Grantaire shifts in his seat. "I don't know, maybe. I mean. 'Parnasse gave him my phone number, I think." He looks at Montparnasse, who nods calmly in confirmation. "Yeah, uh. So Maybe." Enjolras nods, stilted and awkward.

"Good," he says. "You were very good. They will be stupid not to hire you."

Another silence.

Then, as if the situation is not awkward enough, Montparnasse, smirking smug as fuck, announces, "He also got the job as an escort for Wayne's Agency, didn't you 'Aire?" and Jehan squeaks, which Grantaire acceptably mimics, and considers throwing himself out into the arms of Montparnasse's muse: the Seine.

Enjolras narrows his eyes at the younger man. "Did he."

Montparnasse shrugs lazily. "Yeah, they sent the confirmation two minutes ago. Said he can start tomorrow night, or something. Here, you wanna see?" he swipes a thumb across the screen of his phone and Grantaire snatches it away before anyone can see.

He's not lying.

"Forty thousand dollars?!" it is possible that Grantaire is currently hyperventilating at the sight of four zeros added to his bank account.

"In advance," Montparnasse says to him, smirking. "Whoever paid for it must want you very much." Grantaire looks at him, horrified.

When he looks at Enjolras, the man's face is blank but thoughtful, eyes trained on Grantaire. Then the corner of his lips quirks, disappears as fast as it appears, and tells Grantaire, "I'm glad you're okay," like he didn't hear a word Montparnasse said, before storming off toward the backroom.

Montparnasse looks smug.

Jehan has taken Grantaire's position and starts hyperventilating in his stead.

Grantaire might just die of a heart attack.

-

The next night, Feuilly and Éponine come to his and Jehan's flat (and, with it, Montparnasse's flat) bearing gifts.

"Have you showered yet?" says Éponine as she lays down her men-make-up kit while Feuilly brings the large apple pie into the kitchen. "This is your first night as an escort, Grantaire, you need to shower at least twice using the best of the best products out there. Do I need to remind you not to use Montparnasse's aftershave? You only use that stuff when you want to get laid, 'Aire, and I for one know that being an escort does not mean you will have to satisfy your client's urges to bend you over the table and have their wicked way with you."

"I didn't even know I was applying to be an escort until we're at the Musain!" Grantaire shrieks, then promptly starts panicking. "Oh my god, what if the client doesn't like me?"

"I am finding the fact that you are more bothered by the thought of the client not liking you than the knowledge that Montparnasse has practically put you up for prostitution very disturbing indeed." Feuilly deadpans, handing Grantaire a plateful of apple pie, because he is nice and Grantaire loves him so much, he tells Feuilly so.

Feuilly's eye-rolling motion is so impressive Grantaire feels like a scolded idiotic child in his presence. "Whatever, Julia Roberts, get on with it. Your limo is going to arrive in fifteen minutes, chop, chop."

"Who is this billionaire who hired you for the night, anyway?" Éponine asks, as she helps Grantaire into his suit.

"Uh, at first he's the daughter of some rich businessman or another? Hired me for an opening of her club, or some kind. But then the agency changed it at the last second and told me I'm supposed to attend a charity gala with another man. So I'm not really sure myself." Grantaire replies.

Éponine looks at him incredulously. "What, and she didn't ask for a refund? What the hell did this man do to get you? I mean, this your first time isn't it? You're not secretly a courtesan before we met, right?"

"No! And I don't know, okay. This guy just came swooping in like some, I don't know, Bruce Wayne or something." He blinks, tilts his head, smiles. "Huh. Would you look at that."

"Anyway," Éponine cuts in, fixing his tie. "You don't have to do whatever it is he wants you to do if you're not willing, okay? Bahorel is a lawyer, although a half-decent one, but he's got your back. I've hidden a couple of razorblades in your shoes, that should help if this man tries something with you."

"My life," Grantaire whines. Éponine pats his shoulders in sympathy.

-

Because life hates Grantaire or has a grudge of some sort for simply existing in the world, the person who hired him for the night, the mysterious clientele who has paid a generous amount of money to steal him from the businessman's daughter, is actually Enjolras in a fucking suit.

Grantaire goes from terrified beyond belief to fucking rock hard in a second.

"Oh my god, _what_ ," he whispers to Enjolras, once they are finally alone after making rounds around the room and meeting Enjolras' mother (who is, in Grantaire's opinion, actually very nice and very pretty and can quote every single line of A Song of Ice and Fire books if persuaded, Christ, Grantaire is in love), and Enjolras' hand is still on the small of his back.

"How many did you pay to the agency to hire me?" Grantaire tries again, when Enjolras stubbornly does not answer unless he can get the door to his hotel room open. "Enjolras?"

"I don't like the thought of you with someone else," Enjolras blurts out, rather petulantly. Grantaire blinks. And waits. Enjolras makes a frustrated noise on the back of his throat and tugs Grantaire closer until they are pressed flush against each other. "I don't _want_ you to be with someone else. So."

Grantaire's head is dizzy. From the confession, or from the smell of Enjolras so close to him at the moment, he's not sure, his head just _is_. "Then why didn't you say anything? I could've refused. I would've quit, if you really don't want me to."

Enjolras pouts, and Grantaire. Grantaire wants to kiss the pout away and lick into Enjolras mouth and nibble at his lower lip, just because. "I didn't know what to say! You looked so ecstatic, and I just. I was going to ask you out, but then you're gone, and I've been lonely ever since. Combeferre kicked me out of the house twice because I've been moping for six weeks."

He rolls his eyes at the last part, obviously quoting it from someone else – Courfeyrac, probably, or Combeferre. Grantaire doesn't care.

"Right, so. Are we going to do something about this, then? I mean. From what I have gathered, you like me back. So. Do you think we should kiss? I think we should kiss."

Enjolras smiles, bright and happy, and leads Grantaire toward the bedroom.

"Oh, and by the way? You don't have to work for the Wayne Agency anymore, I've taken care of that."

"What, what did you do?" Grantaire is curious, he really is, but he is more curious about what Enjolras can do with his hand down Grantaire's pants. Enjolras hums, licks into his mouth, does wonderful things with his fingers wrapped around him, and Grantaire forgets to care.

-

He gets a text from Montparnasse, early in the morning.

 **Montparnasse:** Crow asks if you're currently single right now. Should I tell?

Grantaire smiles, takes a picture of Enjolras' sleeping face against his chest, and attaches the picture to his text.

 **Montparnasse:** Damn. Does this mean you're quitting your other jobs? Because my phone is flooded with texts from Raven, Louvre, Todd, and that guy from the campaign. They all want you to work for them. And Wayne's Agency just called, practically begging they want you back. What should I tell them?

 **Grantaire:** tell them i'm too busy doing my boyfriend on every flat surface of our hotel room to care

And, when Enjolras wakes up, not a few minutes later, Grantaire kisses him and does just that.

-

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you like this!


End file.
